


the nice and accurate prophecies of agnes montague, beldam

by the_cosmos_lonely (dheiress)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Audacious Heretical Parallels, Biblical Reinterpretation, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Good Omens AU, I miss the times we can still pretend, I’ve used up my author notes so I’m snarking in the tags, M/M, Other, beware pretentious writing ahead, gratuitous use of capital letters and parentheses, no beta we die like archive assistants, that Elias has a bit of good left to him
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:47:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24232315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dheiress/pseuds/the_cosmos_lonely
Summary: The truth was simple. He did it for a taste, for a lick of that forbidden fruit dropped by the man made aware, made ashamed by the sudden transition from the darkness of ignorance to the enveloping flameless light of sheer understanding. The corrupted flesh of the once hanging fruit and its black seeds, glossy as blood, scraping against his forked tongue stung his senses but oh, how he relished the sour sweetness of knowing.Omniscience in a single, choking breath.(snapshots from another world with another sort of apocalypse that is also the bastardly snake’s own making or the Good Omens fusion AU)
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Peter Lukas/James Wright, Peter Lukas/Jonah Magnus, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 12
Kudos: 157





	the nice and accurate prophecies of agnes montague, beldam

**Author's Note:**

> We would like The Beginning to be something meaningful, an origin of esoteric means we can only marvel at with incomprehension, but no, The Beginning is actually simple. It was Darkness then a Bang of Thought, resulting in the Light of Creation that was both Ephemeral and Eternal since Time has not yet been Thought of then yet.
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> Still, I Digress, The Beginning is Important but not to us for it is not Our Beginning. Ours happened, is happening, will happen in a Series of Seemingly Unrelated Snapshots but Once Examined Closer Appear to be Unnervingly Connected.
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> Knowing that, let us Begin.

His secret is this: he didn’t do it to sow discord and reap evil into the world. Oh no—the one who calls himself Elias, the one who called himself James, Richard, _Jonah_ , all those other sort of names for his True Name was cast away with his blazing Wings when he Fell with nothing left of it but fragments just like the broken halo of light turned to horns of stone upon his head, he is the one who first slithered into the first garden to whisper into the first woman’s ears the words, _go on, it is naught but a desire for the unembellished truth, how could it be the iniquity of Life_ –the devil’s tongue no, he did not do it for the sake of slaughter or lust or the other unforgivables that would undoubtedly come later.

The truth was simple. He did it for a taste, for a lick of that forbidden fruit dropped by the man made aware, made _ashamed_ by the sudden transition from the darkness of ignorance to the enveloping flameless light of sheer understanding. The corrupted flesh of the once hanging fruit and its black seeds, glossy as blood, scraping against his forked tongue stung his senses but oh, how he relished the sour sweetness of _knowing_.

Omniscience in a single, choking breath.

Oh, how tiny he felt yet vast, sinking and rising at the same time, the freeing notions of the twisting serpent that he is as it sheds its skin to become the creature of many eyes and limbs eased by the cold morning dew on the Garden's grass.

Almost absent-mindedly, he heard the first of humans wail in despair, saw from the corners of his eyes the first of rolling dark thunderclouds, drank in the first petrichor from the air. Silent laughter shook his multitude of limbs even as each of them receded, the crimson scars of their regressions opening into eyes of many hues and colours. Oh, see, what started as his hunt to sample the elusive knowledge of God becomes the first stirrings of sin—Disobedience, but there was nary a space in his pleased soul to care.

In the end, a taste was not enough, so he unhinged his jaw wide, swallowed the rotten bitten fruit in one gulp, the taste of Forbidden Knowledge lingering on his tongue for Eternity.

  


* * *

  


His true name is lost to the Silence of their Heavenly Host, the angelic choir nothing but a pale remnant of what it was before. The Morning Star could be blamed for this as well as those weak to believe his Lies and waged his war but he finds Their Muted Voice preferable, not that he tells anyone, let alone their Mother.

The post at the Eastern Gate was isolated, a Haven for someone like him who finds the Loneliness of his own company preferable than the Loneliness of their Host. It allowed him his craved individuality, singular as it was, contented he was and faithful to his Loneliness, so even to this day he could not explain his actions on That Day. He knows not if it was him that had stayed his hand, his flaming sword half raised yet held by so lax a grip, or something else. Was it...curiosity? Perhaps. He had always wondered, detachedly, what the serpent was doing pretending to befriend him, its gaze always inevitably averted towards the Tree in the end. Whatever it had been, it had also stayed his gaze, watching the long length of the slithering serpent wind uninvited through the garden and around the gullible form of the female little one.

She followed its hisses and the male little one, in turn, followed hers. Unaware, they bit into the forbidden fruit, whatever trivial knowledge that dripped into their little minds shaming them of the naked skin His Mother has gifted them with. They scrambled for leaves and vines and when they had disappeared fumbling into the verdant bushes, the serpent twisted and shed its own skin, taking the rest of the apple into its own hungry maw.

He could have stopped it, he supposes, he could have used the sword given for this exact situation and beheaded the hideous creature writhing on the grass, its newborn scales of corneas and irises constricting in the Light of the Sun. Instead, he watched it sink, his former kin slowly crawling down into the Dirt, satiation glinting off its unsightly seeing scales. Chaos so uninteresting to repeat even in his memories followed after that, his siblings were enraged. He has only heard Mother sound so angry when Lucifer bewilderedly asked, ‘ _why’_.

Chastised for letting the serpent fool him, he was, but blamed for it, he was not.

(They do not know of the sword, casually handed off to the little male one as they rushed off into the cold, unfinished mortal world. It was a wager with himself, how long will the little ones use it to defend themselves before using it to harm each other and try to return to the Original State of Solitude. He never really understood the little ones. He won and lost that one; they didn't.)

They have forgiven him for allowing the Morning Star's favourite passage into the Garden but even eons later, even after multiple deaths of the stars they helped Mother create, they have not forgotten. No matter, it suited him rather well for in punishment they left him well alone.

(What remained of his siblings that deigned to talk to him call him Peter nowadays.)

  


* * *

  


The Beginnings of Sasha James and Timothy Stoker are not their Births, intimately intertwined as it were, no, they Begin earlier, more than three centuries before, in fact. Like this:

“Doth thee has’t a destiny?” asks the woman calmly, her auburn hair a rich velvet curtain framing her freckled face. 

Jack Barnabas stares at her, heart beating with emotions he cannot name, his grip on her deceptively thin wrists tightening, “I believeth not in God and f’r he might not but beest did connect to Destiny, I wilt sayeth nay.”

She does not reply, and he pulls her closer, aware of the pleading tone his voice had taken, “I begeth thee alloweth us and fleeth this curs’d town with I and starteth somewh’re anew!”

Her mouth curls at its edges, not quite a wistful smile, “Indeed that wilt beest nice.”

However, she moves away from him. If he was a stronger man he would not have let her, would have hold on, but he is a moulting candle to her lightless flame. Flowing away from him, she turns to her cottage door that has burst open at the seams in that very moment. The villagers saunter into the little dwelling, their faces broad with grins and they all crow at him as they wave their pitchforks and torches, celebrating, “Thee has’t caught the witch!”

“Thou art late, I shouldst has’t been burn’d ten minutes earli’r,” she remarks, voice prim but firm. Pressing around her, she lets them lead her out towards the centre of her garden where stands the great dead tree, all black burned bark, and spidery empty branches. He watches on, helpless to do anything but, as they tied her to it, the pyre they made in her garden an atrocity in itself and yet she allows them, no fear of flame or death reaching her eyes. Jack curses the day he walks into this town, looking for ghosts and beldams and finding his love to be both instead.

One of the villagers passes him a torch and they beam at him, “Set the beldam aflame, mighty Hunter, so the w’rld can beest did rid of another monst’r.”

His gaze catches onto hers and she nods, another consciousness must have taken over his body for he accepts the light and walks towards her, limbs protesting but moving nonetheless. The villagers cheer on, their voices and faces blurring into one indistinguishable mass of strangers lusting for death.

Scream or cry, she did not when the flames reached her flesh, a small not-quite smile gracing her lips instead and Jack didn’t know one could convey such final goodbye and thank you in such small gesture. She burned for days, a bright bonfire that lighted their nights and the villagers all were at awe, a great cleansing they called it and lauded Jack for starting such a trustworthy flame. _Stoker,_ they give him as title, a moniker that he will not escape though detest it he did.

Not only did it painfully remind him of what could have been, it was also untrue for while he held the torch and indeed lowered it to light Agnes Montague’s pyre, the fire has sparked at the roots of the dead apple tree even before the flame of his torch touches the kindling.

(Somewhere else, a Book of Prophecies is passed on.)

  


* * *

  


For all intents and purposes of The Great Plan, the lives and fates of Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood should have not met, and yet met it did, their Beginnings a multitude of Errors, of Free Will and Determinism, and the lack of Difference in between.

Like a well-loved theatre play, they Began in Three Acts:

It was 1987 and it was an early Thursday evening with half a chance of a heavy thunderstorm rolling in the distance. Still there was another half chance that it wouldn’t, so people hadn’t taken any precautions against the possible rain. In Magnus Institute, London, James Wright straightened in his office chair, pen stilling over a signature authorizing several new hires for the Institute. He should have opened a bookshop instead, less paperwork, he was telling himself when the static in his ears ascended to a deafening crescendo.

He blinked.

“ _I see_.”

The static died down and he glanced down to see his hands shaking, pen broken and fingers bloody. The spilt blood gleamed, quite ruining the papers it touched as it spelled out _Bournemouth_ in his own distressed handwriting _._ His lips curved in what should have been a smile but the bitterness of knowledge weighed down its edges. The End was to come soon, all hellfire and brimstone and endless torture, and how much more knowledge was still there left for him to devour? Too many, still. He needed—

_Knock, knock._

It came not from his office door but from an old coffin not there a moment before but was now standing at the centre of his office as if it has been a part of the structure for the longest time. About two metres long and one metre wide, his lips flattened in displeasure at the realisation of his visitors. Its lid swung open and there upon revealed two men identically uniformed in their strangeness. They strode in synchronized steps towards his desk, their smell of Strange Dirt wafting in along them.

“Gentlemen, what a pleasant evening,” he nodded and then rhetorically asked after a slight pause, “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“Nice stormy ev’ning, innit, guv’nor,” one of them began as the other finished with, “we ‘ave a package for ya.”

And indeed they did, the wicker basket between them dwarfed by their towering boulders for bodies. It was dropped unceremoniously onto the mahogany table and the man currently calling himself James Wright did not need to look inside to know what lay inside. One of them handed him a pen, the other a tattered piece of parchment.

“Receiving signature,” the one on the left grunted.

“Sign here,” said the one on the right, pointing at the left edge of the otherwise blank paper.

He scribbled the true manifestation of his soul in the form of a scrawl now only he could read, all fiery loops and glowing darkness. Perhaps, if he didn’t know better he would say _oh how pretty an eye,_ elaborate as it was. The Strangers Peered at his signature for a moment, before wordlessly nodding in his direction, apparently satisfied. The wooden tomb sang behind them, the words ‘DO NOT OPEN’ squirming on the lid and disappearing just as quickly when the two men went in and slid the coffin close behind them.

Just like that The Antichrist—the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of the World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness—was delivered to him—the one who called himself all other sort of names for his True Name was cast away with his blazing Wings when he Fell, the one who first slithered into the first garden to whisper into the first woman’s ears the words of temptation—to be delivered in turn to an unsuspecting pair of parents that will, willingly or through other devilish means, raise it in such despair and loneliness such that when its true father comes for it, it will be all too willing to destroy the world for a chance of being loved and accepted.

Biting his lips for a moment before he gave in to his Curiosity, the one calling himself James for now opened the lid a crack to peek into The Chosen One. Rewarded by an all too quick glimpse of too large eyes where eyes were not supposed to be and too many, long, thin, furry limbs where limbs were not meant to be, he unthinkingly tossed the basket’s cover wide open to allow in the light and better see the monstrosity. Alas, the multitudes of eyes closed in shock and the limbs scuttled back to the shadows until all lay inside the basket was a babe of the normal number of eyes and limbs.

A gurgle escaped his throat and it took him a moment to understand it was laughter, amused and hysterical as it was.

He laughed, and laughed, and laughed—

“You did _what_ ,” the one who had always called himself Peter asked him hours later, flat and not really asking, as he lay on top of his sturdy desk, the wicker basket strewn empty on the floor and his own flesh filled with spirits of inebriation.

He laughed again, clutching the sides of his stomach, “I— _hic_ —I switched it with another.”

“The Antichrist? The Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of the World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness?”

James did not answer immediately, instead stretching out his limbs in a lazy sprawl reminiscent of his first form. He could turn back to his true form now, he supposed, slither into the forsaken labyrinths whose existences not even his Dark Lord knew of, but then again, _what would be the fun in that_ , he wanted to see what would happen.

“I could ask you what you’re doing,” Peter said, “but the answer would be wasting my time, isn’t it?”

“Peter,” James drawled, not answering and grasping at the other’s tie to draw him in instead. Peter bent willingly, eyes shards of ice above him and an impossible fog settled heavy and cold around them, Peter’s own omission of the truth. He smiled, their faces a hair’s breadth from each other, for he could feel Peter’s breath quickening, the other might claim of holiness and divine sanctity and blessed solitude but truth be told he _loved_ dabbling in all kinds of mortal pleasures.

Raising his lips to the other’s ear, he whispered coyly, “You wanna make a _bet_ —?”

  


  


In 1998, two boys existed without knowing of each other’s existence.

Martin Blackwood was an orphan all but in name, his father nonexistent and his mother dying every day, an empty husk of flesh fulfilling the basic role of providing him sustenance for his continued survival in this world and nothing else more. But that particular awareness hasn’t fully sunk in yet, though buried it was somewhere in the recesses of his mind, a ticking time bomb of a realisation.

This was the day he turned eleven. His mother had baked him an apple pie, a paltry, dry one at that but Martin loved it because it came from his mother and this was one such time her rare affection fed him a morsel of attention, each bite into the large slice he took giving him a grin that splits his face in two happy slivers. The boy had been shooed from the house, yes, in preparation of his mother’s gentleman caller, and the older boys in the neighbourhood were cat calling him when he passed them by but he has been told to ignore them so ignore them he did. Entertaining visits, mostly late at nights but sometimes in the middle of a cheery London morning, from unfamiliar men was his mother’s occupation and Martin was old enough to realise it was an profession frowned upon by most people. Still, mother fed both of them with the money from those visits and it provided her a semblance of companionship Martin was inadequate to give her.

He walked on, so lost in the crowd of his thoughts, he couldn’t pinpoint when the Dog, fur dark as the void and eyes a sickly green, started following him. Only when a wet nose sniffed his legs did he realised he had a companion. The Dog’s frame was large but its flesh was thin, pulled taut against its long bones. Without hesitation, Martin fed it the rest of his pie, the Dog licking the crumbs and the jam off his fingertips. When his palm was clean of pie, the Dog wagged its tail, eyes large and tongue lolling. His mother would be disgusted by this mangy thing, Martin thought, large swollen ticks peeking out of its dark coat.

The Dog whined and batted its head against Martin’s knuckles.

“Well,” he decided, feeling guilty and elated at the same time, “there’s an empty lot next to us, as long as you don’t come inside the house, I don’t think Mother would really mind if I take care of you.”

  


Jonathan Sims was an orphan, raised by a grandmother that couldn’t help the bitterness at having to raise another child when she already has performed this act with her own child. Still, the old woman tried and today was one exhibit of her better attempts to give the child some semblance of happiness. It was the child’s eleventh birthday and he will get an animal companion, whether she liked it or not.

She gave the shop keeper dogging their footsteps a dry stare as the boy rushed through the glasses containing many legged insects, inspected the colourful fishes with neutral interest, and lingered on the dog kennels, before stopping in front of a mostly shadowed corner and pointing at where a large cage covered in burlap sat.

“What is that?”

The shop keeper, a middle aged Asian-looking man, swooped in, a salesman wolfish grin plastered on his face.

“What do _you_ want it to be?”

If she has a cane, she would have beat it on the ground in impatience, however she did not, so she simply levelled the man a withering glare that said to cut the bullshit already. It worked as it wont to do and the shop keeper’s smile dropped, pulling the cloth off the cage with less zest and enthusiasm. Out of the three of them, he seemed to be the most surprised when a rather large cat greeted them with a deep _meow_. Its fur was black, almost like the pure shadows of the night, and it eyes were green, pale and she thought it blind until its head moved to follow the boy’s hand which was now reaching into the cage to pet it.

The feline rubbed its head against the child’s palm and he gazed up at her in askance.

“Good,” she praised, a feline would not need to be walked unlike an excitable canine, “you clean its mess, understand? Feed it, bathe it, make sure its entertained enough. If I hear any sound of breaking or clattering because of it, you will be the one punished.”

Her grandson nodded, and she sighed with a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

She haggled for the cat and its necessities and the shop keeper almost gave it away for free, some light in his eyes that she did not trust. When she was forking over the money, he turned to the child and asked in such excitement she felt vague warning bells in her head, “What are you going to name it?”

The boy blinked up at him, then at her.

She shrugged.

“I’m thinking of Captain Cat.”

“Captain...Cat?”

This did not surprise her, the boy liked his stories but he was not an imaginative sort. Such nonsense was forbidden in her house. Crestfallen, the man handed her the change and didn’t ask any more questions as he bundled up the cat and its accessories, sending longing looks after the cat. Heavens, if he didn’t want to sell the animal then he should have not put it on sale. Finally, she took one of the boy’s hands in hers, the cat settled contentedly in carrier he was clutching, and she whisked them all away from Tom Haan’s Pet Shop and Miscellaneous.

  


  


The year 2015 finds the old woman dead, the empty husk of a mother long separated from her child, and the eleven year old children now young men working for the same Institute yet still unaware of each other’s presence, not in the way that matters.

The one who always called himself Peter, tilts his head, trying to inspect the one who was now calling himself Elias from a different angle. What he is seeing doesn’t change, it is still a smug little demon sitting behind a mahogany desk, full with the knowledge that he had gotten rid of one of the brightest Witchfinder of this age. He didn’t even had to kill her, just had to gently nudge her with the right information and off she goes to her own End. Whatever they’ll find of Gertrude Robinson in the later days would be grisly and Peter does not envy the ones tasked with cleanup.

Peter took a sip of the port, exasperation filling him along with the spirits.

“My, you seem excited, little man.”

Elias steeples his fingers together, resting his chin on it as a smirk stretches out his face.

“Told you, it will work.”

“Too bad you didn’t make a bet on it.”

“Hmmm, there’s a bet I’m more willing to make—oh, wait I _already_ did.”

Peter makes a noncommittal grunt, “You haven’t stopped anything at all, Elias. You have only delayed the inevitable Great Plan.”

He reaches over the desk and plucks the heavy glass from Peter’s hand, drinking a long swig of the alcohol, and, quietly entranced, Peter examines the way his throat move in sinuous waves.

“Oh, big man, ye of little faith. You almost make me believe you want the End to come?”

Shrugging, he brings the glass of alcohol back to him, fingers momentarily sliding against the other’s before Elias allows the exchange. Peter takes another sip, careful to lay his lips upon the part Elias’ lips touched, the drink now tasting inexplicably of sweetly burnt apples.

“My want to its Coming is irrelevant, as the End of All Things have already been written in stone.”

“Stones can be obliterated, with just a little _kaboom_ , Peter,” Elias tuts, “Besides, don’t tell me that you’re looking forward to all the _Singing_? Eternal and joyous and heavenly singing right beside your beloved siblings, all loving peace and _community_? Having never a moment alone, does that really sound like Bliss to you? ”

It does not but Peter remains silent, trying to act unaffected so as not to give Elias the gratification of being correct again. Still, Elias’ smirk becomes more infuriatingly smug by the minute, and Peter wants to crazily lick that expression off his face.

“You’ll see, _Peter_ , it will be glorious—,” he pauses, eyes glazing over in that familiar way. _Where are you going,_ Peter craves to say, _I’m not going to let you leave without me._

“Hush now, here they come. Turn invisible or flap off somewhere else.”

_Knock, knock._

Peter flees from sight but watches still the scene.

“Come in,” Elias calls out, schooling his face into a more dispassionate expression instead of the manically conceited one he wears. The door opens and in files the two children whose fates Elias has meddled in, and my how they both have grown.

Elias waves them both closer to his desk, motioning to the chairs where the boys gingerly sat, avoiding each other’s knees from bumping against each other and their eyes trying to settle somewhere not the other’s pair. If Peter didn’t know better, he will be hard pressed to tell which of one them the Antichrist is.

“You might be wondering why I called you here,” Elias begins, all professional and warmly distant, “I’m going to cut through the chase and tell you that both you’ve been exemplary employees and I am very proud to announce that both of you are promoted to the archives.”

“Promoted,” the bigger one replies, big eyes blinking fast behind his red glasses.

“The _Archives?”_ the smaller one asks, a certain confusion curling his brows.

“Yes,” Elias chirps, clapping his dainty hands that has never chafed against a knotted rope once, “Isn’t it _wonderful?”_

  


So here Begins The Apocalypse, a ticking time bomb and Elias has restarted the counter after pausing it without even the notice of both Divine and Infernal Sides for so long. Peter takes another gulp of his drink and winks back to his ship, alone and aimless once again.

He raises his glass in a mockery of a toast and says, “Here’s to you, _Elias_. May your dastardly plans not come true at all.”

**Author's Note:**

> Is the Story actually relevant to the Ending? Or is the Ending actually relevant to the Story? Perhaps, both questions are Irrelevant for what is concerning us right now is how Relevant is a Story without an Ending? Can it even be called a Story if all it was are Beginnings and not even closely connected ones at that? But then again, a shifting of perspective may help for what is a Story but A Matter of the Universe? And is there not a Law saying Matter can neither be Created nor Destroyed? For a Story to have Ended, something else must have Began in its place; for something to Begin, something else must End, is that not the Truth?
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> Then, can you answer me this?
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> For each Beginning you saw, whose Ending was it?


End file.
